


The Looking Glass

by wordwinx



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-15
Updated: 2012-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-03 17:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordwinx/pseuds/wordwinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe Adam wasn't intentionally testing his boundaries, but given the circumstances saying "No" seemed out of the question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Looking Glass

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has to do with a photo shoot. I am NOT a photographer so I sincerely apologize for any blatant artistic errors. Also, I do not speak French without Google translate. This is pure entertainment! I do not know these people, and no harm is intended.

Adam arrived with that look on his face. It was the look which made Sauli ask if he was okay immediately following the soft kiss and his heartfelt, “Hello, my love.” This was a recognizable pattern of Adam’s homecoming whenever there was a long line of days with no breaks. It happened pretty often. Sauli learned to read the signals. He tried to greet Adam at the door unless he’d fallen asleep by the pool or dug himself elbow deep in home improvement. Adam liked to enter softly on those days then discover him. Sauli would smile kind of surprised wondering where the time had gone. It was the very same look he had given Adam when he tapped on his shoulder in a bar in Helsinki the night they met for the very first time. Today, something had happened to upset Adam. Sauli would know instinctively by now if he should follow Adam into the kitchen, the studio, the bedroom. As Sauli predicted, Adam evasively said he was all right, gave Sauli’s ass a pat, then announced he was going to take a shower. Sauli went into the kitchen to turn off the stove. He re-corked the wine and stuck cellophane over the salad in the fridge. A shower meant sex before dinner.

Adam stripped. He stepped into the water before it was comfortably warm and shuddered. He looked through the frosted glass and groaned. “My God, what have I done?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adam’s thoughts drifted back a few hours ago when his conscience was clear. Adam was cold and grateful for it. These shoots always drained him. The holds and irregular angles could set a man’s muscles to trembling. Adam didn’t have to be placed in poses, he instinctively knew how to stand, how to sit, how to look into or away from the camera. Photographers immediately expected more from him than they had of their former subjects. They complimented him with the word “natural” over and over, but it never resonated with Adam as a testament to his beauty. He felt his looks were anything but natural. The natural Adam before hair dye and make-up was awkward, ordinary. He made jokes about taking too long to get ready, always being late. He resisted questions about his appearance. What the fuck did they care if he was wearing make-up or not, if he’d highlighted his hair or not? Did they really want him to admit it was all a façade? Would it make them feel better to know underneath the image lurked a fat, pimply, ginger teen. Today was the worst kind of day for a photo shoot, a day when the mirror was no friend, when Adam wished he could hide due to some minute imperfection invisible to the naked eye. Sometimes he battled the insecurity with outlandish fashion, chin to wrist shirt-fronts, a hat and sunglasses. If they had to see him, then at least he could shade his eyes from their stares. If they couldn’t see his eyes, they couldn’t know his soul. He had to keep something for himself, didn’t he?

Adam hadn’t developed trust with this particular photographer, but he came highly recommended by Adam’s publicist who wanted to stir up as much international visibility for Adam as possible with the impending release of his sophomore album. This particular shoot was for a spread in a new French fashion magazine called “Bord”. They told Adam it meant ‘edge’ and he liked that. Adam had already completed a phone interview in which he was asked the same pedantic questions as always. Adam had suggested they reschedule the shoot lamenting how tedious this week had become, but that was simply out of the question. A postponement would be costly since the studio was reserved well in advance. The assistants were on contract. Adam didn’t want a reputation for difficulty. He had made many acquaintances in the business, but this man was a stranger. He ought to make a good impression. Adam knew him simply as Louie. He was French and spoke his native tongue to three of his assistants, the rest were LA stock. Adam didn’t feel threatened by the language barrier. He had already survived a few visits to Finland where he had learned how to translate an entire dictionary of smiles. Unfortunately, Louie didn’t smile much. Louie spoke stiff, deliberate English to Adam but with a lilting accent that Adam found intriguing, somewhat persuasive. Adam had fond memories of Paris, and he was cautious not to seem too American. Adam had sampled this man’s work before he agreed to be photographed and found it stylishly seductive. Louie wasn’t the kind of artist who would compromise his creative vision for face time. He had a way of making a celebrity look different enough that a person would look twice maybe even check a caption to see who it was then exclaim, “Oh! That’s so-and-so! Really? Wow.” Adam appreciated the idea of anonymity so when Louie suggested Adam forgo his usual leather attire in favor of something more elegant, Adam agreed . . . within reason. The contrast with this hair and brows along with the cool blue of his eyes had made white shirts work just fine before. However, the black pants stayed. They were slimming, and Adam liked the showy zipper, the paradox of subtle bragging rights.

Adam had suffered through shoots when the atmosphere was stale at an unkempt studio, stifling due to umbrella spotlights, computer equipment, and just too many damn people around. They were never busy enough to warrant their presence in Adam’s opinion. He deemed the inevitable extras, scavengers akin to paparazzi. All these musings were, of course, part of Adam’s inner narrative. He would never voice these criticisms. On the job, he was either relaxed and confidently genial or guarded and coolly amiable, but always . . . always professional. If he was uncomfortable, Adam learned how to find a zone where he could escape. It might be the nondescript mood music they played or the whiteout drone of industrial fans. In spite of the interruptions by stylists and set crew, Adam could do aloof. Adam wondered if anyone else noticed he often looked kind of spacey in those photos. His point of view had been jaded. The finished product never lacked a back story that tainted Adam’s appreciation of his perfectly airbrushed face. He often approved the proofs then never looked at them again. 

Today, Adam was cold. It was an advantage actually, since there would be little need for moisture management. This studio was illumined from a vaulted ceiling. A skylight on the roof ran the length of the place but there were no windows at the walls. It was a bit of a cell, not dark like a prison, but quite bright almost sterile like an asylum. Adam was put off by the over-eager smiles of the staff when he arrived as if they were luring him toward their secret hell. He’d stepped off the crazy train into the funny farm. Adam decided that all photo shoots were the place sane rationalization came to die. In the past, Adam had been asked to offer his balls to a snake, endure the claws of a cockatoo, and comfort a snippy Chi Hua Hua. He had been expected to suspend himself mid air, point a gun, and suckle a woman’s breast . . . sheer insanity! This shoot had been without drama in comparison, although, he was having trouble connecting to the man behind the lens. 

Louie was strict. He was not a collaborator. It actually suited Adam on a day like today to turn responsibility over to someone else. There was something sort of enticing happening. From the moment Adam had been given the opportunity to executive produce his own album, the pressure had never let up. After a week of urgent decisions over font-types and track listing, the inner control freak loosened his grip. The music helped distract him. Adam wondered if it was Portishead or Massive Attack. No matter as long as it transported him beyond these walls. Adam was reclined on a couch, waiting. The cushions were plush, and he felt he was sinking. The only way to avoid the frumpy bunch of fabric at his waistband was to lean way back. Louie apparently liked that. He cocked an eyebrow and squinted, amused at first when he raised the lens, but then he frowned. He approached Adam with a light meter. He held it to Adam’s nose then skimmed it down and down to the front of his pants. Adam wondered if Louie had a sense of humor. “Are you going to take a picture of my dick?” 

Louie was casually serious. “No, this was not my intention. You see, the light wants to illuminate your shirt, but your pants . . .” Louie tisked disappointedly, “ . . . so dark, like ink.”

Adam gave him an apologetic smile. “I was just joking. Should I change?” 

Louie blinked at him as if he were considering Adam as an actual person for the first time. Adam couldn’t read the scrutiny so he did what he always did in that circumstance. He smiled.

Louie almost smiled back. “Not necessarily. I was thinking you could open this shirt. The color of your skin would minimize the contrast of your clothes.” Adam liked his pants a lot, but given a choice he was suddenly willing to go with blue jeans or leopard leggings instead of unbutton his shirt past his collar. Maybe they had a red one in wardrobe, or he could put on a jacket, yeah, that would work, another layer would do just fine. But Louie had already started to undo the buttons, methodically. Adam’s skin was merely the medium of Louie’s choice, the canvas upon which he would cast light and suspend it forever in print. Adam felt his nipples harden with the slightest brush of Louie’s fingers disturbing the sensitized air floating above his unwaxed chest. It wasn’t sexual, but it wasn’t formal like a physician either. It was sensual like a breeze on the beach. Louie manipulated the shirt the way he would arrange flowers . . . with delicate, authoritative, precision, unaffected by their beauty or scent. Adam’s heart sped up. He suddenly felt swallowed by the cushions, but if he stood, he’d bowl the small man over. Where would he go? He couldn’t just walk away. He didn’t want to seem prudish in a European magazine, but he decided he would reject these images during the proofing. Since he wasn’t the one fussing with buttons, Adam didn’t get the opportunity to stop revealing when he had reached his personal limit of exposure mid sternum. Adam wasn’t sure he could do this. Louie seemed satisfied, but not with Adam particularly. He nodded at his light meter instead, then walked back to his position and picked up his camera. 

Wait, wait, wait! Adam wanted to stall. Louie had an infuriating way of snapping several frames before Adam was ready. He would be looking at his feet or tugging his cuffs and Louie would click away. Earlier in the shoot, Adam was wearing a tailored ensemble with his python medges. He noticed a smudge then bent slightly to the side, licked his thumb, and removed the scuff. Louie caught it all on film. Adam thought sarcastically that if he had a lint roller, he’d really go to town. He was even less prepared now. Adam put one modest hand at his waist and braced himself with the other. His legs stretched unbelievable lengths, one on the floor down an entire plank of hardwood, the other bent across two cushions. Suddenly, he was haunted by the specter of Sauli’s image right there climbing forward between his knees, licking his lips, ready to ravish. Sauli frequently crept this way into Adam’s consciousness especially when he least expected it. This time, he knew why Sauli was there. He knew it was often impossible for him to distinguish comfort and sex. He wanted both. No, no, no . . . cold room, cold water . . . don’t, don’t . . . just focus . . . meditate, think music. Relax. As Adam leaned backward, the shirttail fell further open. Louie pushed forward the way a dog leans into a good scratching. He said something breathy in French, followed by rapid-fire flashes. Adam was oddly thrilled by his own mortification. The exposure was masochistic, but to cover himself would have seemed girlish, virginal. He couldn’t. He focused on the music and laid all the way back. One arm went above his head. He moved his other hand from his stomach lower still, a slow flowing sweep over his fly to his thigh. The shutter never ceased to open and close. Adam found his zone and took deep breaths, exhaling through parted lips. Sauli was back, grinning while he watched Adam succumb to his touch. Within the bawdy confines of Adam’s imagination, Sauli sat astride . . . Sauli came inside. Adam realized he’d moaned, ‘Baby’ aloud, and before he could wonder if anyone heard, Louie began speaking excitedly to an assistant. Adam sat up, was it over? He squinted and tried to shield his eyes from the bulbs as if he were enduring a blinding interrogation. “Adam, take off your boots.”

“What? My boots? Why?” 

“I have an idea.” They were already setting up a new background with a mahogany table and rococo mirror. Louie huffed several times when the crew hung the mirror too high or too low on the pegs in the wall. Now it was crooked to the right, no the left. Adam stood up tentatively and approached Louie for clarification. He wasn’t sure he liked the looks of this. Louie sensed Adam’s trepidation. “I have this story, you see. I want you to be undressing.” Adam’s concern deepened. “I mean, you will stand at the table as if you are undressing. I will use your reflection.” Louie gestured vaguely to the mirror then continued. “You are coming home, though, not going out. The boots, the boots must go.” Louie waved rapidly toward the vicinity of Adam’s feet as if he were dismissing an overcooked steak. Adam was beginning to understand that the Frenchman always got what he wanted. Adam hesitantly pulled off his boots while Louie busied himself with a new lens and barked orders, on the brink of exasperation that he had to repeat what he wanted. “Oh, one more thing, Adam. You must unzip your pants.” 

Adam swallowed. “What?” He smiled nervously expecting Louie to say he was joking. 

Louie looked confused again. He often forgot that Americans were sometimes ceremoniously bashful. He needed to console them that the body was the subject of and artist's muse not that of some Puritanical devil. Louie tried harder to feign a smile. His teeth were too little for his face making him seem more like he was grimacing. He repeated himself. “Adam, you see, you are coming home from a very hard day, but very glamorous, and you finally have a quiet moment alone. You undress slowly revealing the real you that no one else knows, only you are not really alone because the camera always is the voyeur. She must see you.” Louie went back to his business having sufficiently explained himself for his own liking. Someone held up a belt for inspection. Louie barely glanced then nodded curtly. 

The woman approached Adam. “Here, put this on your pants, but leave it open with the rest, please.” Adam didn’t move. The assistant snapped. “Shall I help you?” Adam’s dismissive glare reminded her who she was talking to, and she lowered her head. Just because Louis was rude gave her no right to take it out on Adam.

“I know how to put on a belt.” Adam wasn’t exactly sure what to do after that. Even if he may have possibly been a fraction of a second okay with the open pants thing, there was an underlying factor causing him mild panic. When Adam changed out of his street clothes in the dressing room, he hadn’t bothered to put on any underwear. He had to say something before Louie started clicking away. By now the props were in place the way Louie wanted them. Adam sort of glanced frantically toward the door then at his bare feet. This situation was bordering on ridiculous. Adam laughed. It got Louie’s attention. 

“What is it? What is funny?” 

“Uh, I’m not wearing any . . . you know, underwear.” 

There were snickers among the staff. Louie was completely clueless to the significance of this declaration. “So?” 

“So, I’m naked under these. If I open my fly . . .” Adam gestured a sort of tumbling effect out in front. 

Louie was losing patience. He put his hands to his forehead and slid them dramatically down to his chin. The mask he revealed failed to hide his irritation. He walked toward Adam and put his arm around him. “It is no matter, Adam. You see, come come.” Louie maneuvered Adam clumsily into place. “You will stand here. You will face the mirror. You can see for yourself, the mirror stops just here.” Louie put his hand unabashedly at a line several inches below Adam’s belly button. “Nothing shows, you see. Only the eye wants to see, but she cannot.” Adam scanned his reflection up and down and back again. Was he really going to go through with this? His shirt was open. His stomach seemed long, more defined than he remembered whenever it was he had last really looked. Adam touched himself. This was the stomach that appreciated a good meal, the stomach where Sauli rested his head. It was the foundation beneath the air that powered the voice that made the man, his core where the soul resides. Adam’s stomach was his most intimate identity, more deeply his own than even the ample gender-specific plaything in his lap. This . . . this image in the glass was nakedness. The belt swung low, the weight of the buckle pulling the waist just to the top of his hips. His perfectly pedicured toes gripped the floor hard. “It is sexy, no?” Louie patted his shoulder and went back to his camera which for Adam all of a sudden represented the thousands of gawkers who would soon stare mouths agape making their faces crack. Adam shuddered because he was going to do it. He didn’t know what had come over him, but he was definitely doing this. In spite of the air conditioning, Adam had begun to glisten. Louie clapped for the make-up man. He was small and pretty with a shock of bangs over-bleached. He approached Adam tentatively and avoided his eyes. Subjects needed their space. 

Adam spoke very low so he wouldn’t draw anyone else’s attention. “Hey.” The man startled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. Am I making an idiot of myself? I mean, do I look okay?” 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” The smaller man looked around. “Adam, fuck. You don’t see it? You are so fucking hot! SHIT hot. I mean totally shit the fuck hot.” Adam smiled and the man resumed his dabbing and brushing. “I am seriously going to come in my pants any second.” He winked.

Adam’s smile widened appreciatively. “Okay, okay.” 

The man whispered. “Louie is kind of an ass, but he knows what the fuck he’s doing.” Then he stepped back to admire his work. “And thanks to me, you look fabulous.” 

“Thank you.” Adam took another deep breath and let it out slowly. How many times had he made a split decision that went waaaay wrong so that only his friends saw the bright side . . . or so so right that he had to give thanks to the universe? He’d lost count. It was no longer happenstance but habit. Fuck it. Go for it. Adam unfastened the button and pulled the zipper down. “Can we turn up the music please?” It was done before Louie snapped his fingers. Yes, Goldfrapp! Now it really felt like home. Adam started to move. He walked up to and all around the table. He took off his rings. He shrugged a sleeve off his shoulder. He combed his hand through his hair and scratched. He did all the things he normally did getting undressed but with a whole lot more attitude. He reached into his pocket for effect then realized there was something inside. He took out a few bills with a condom he’d forgotten and tossed them onto the table. He pulled the belt free, and his pants slipped. Someone gasped. It made Adam smirk. Click click click . . . shit hot was right. Adam needed a break, very badly. He tried to get Louie’s attention, but he was distracted, not paying him the least attention. What the fuck was he trying so hard for? A little feedback would be great about now. Did he get it right? Were they done here? Adam was no diva, but he hated being ignored. He called over the music. “I’m going to take five.” 

Louie regarded him absentmindedly, then put his camera aside. “Of course.”

Adam hustled to the dressing room. Every step created a maddening friction. Hell, his pants were hanging open. He couldn’t decide if he wanted to expel this pent up energy on the phone, ranting with his manager or panting with his boyfriend. One would pull him back from the edge while the other could push him blissfully over. He turned a corner and ran full force into the make-up man almost knocking him down. The man misunderstood when Adam caught him and thought he was proposing an embrace. Adam had to wriggle his hips free from grabby hands. He pushed the man a little too hard against the wall in an effort to put distance between them. The man bit his lip and said, “Fuck yeah.” Adam sensed something was about to go terribly wrong. The man lunged forward, but Adam turned his head to avoid a kiss. He went for Adam’s neck instead. Adam’s brain was screaming stop stop stop! He pushed off, but the man held Adam’s arms. “Whatever you want, Adam, the answer is yes.”

Adam was breathing heavily, but he shook his head. “I’m not asking.” He clenched his jaw in smug indifference knowing he’d tapped the sweetest piece of ass in the northern hemisphere, under his roof, under his covers . . . a man capable of thinking on his feet and sinking to his knees with equal finesse. ‘Fortunate’ didn’t even begin to describe how he felt about Sauli. “Look, you’re cute. I’m really flattered, but . . .” The man’s expression changed immediately, and he let Adam go. Here came the brush off. “I’m taken. I’m with someone. Do you understand?” The man began to squirm and averted his eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Tony.” He pouted. Adam hadn’t realized how young he was.

“I could use a favor, Tony.”

Tony looked down the hallway and cleared his throat. “Sure, why not.”

“Could you go back into the studio and get my boots?” 

Their eyes met for a few seconds as Adam tried to communicate wordlessly that there were no hard feelings. Tony shrugged. “No problem.” 

Adam shut the dressing room door and crashed against it. For once, he didn’t even check his phone. He no longer wished to speak to anyone. This was not a side of his personality he wanted to explain. All the while he was touring, Adam had gotten to know himself very well. Without question, the audience, the handlers, the fanboys . . . so many Tonys enhanced his experience, but when the lights came down, and the bus pulled out, it was Adam alone and he knew. He knew what was really kindling the fire. Perhaps some had suspected although he would never admit it. In spite of the critical eye and self-deprecation, Adam turned himself on. The idea that he had just let a strange man take naughty pictures of him, that he had successfully resisted a sure thing in favor of faithfulness was too much to suppress. He couldn’t go back out there like this. Adam locked the door. He eased himself into an armchair in the corner of the dressing room and peeled down his pants just enough. He gave his junk a couple of satisfying tugs. He just watched at first, watched himself grow hard from exposure and expert grip. He spit in his hand and slid further down in the seat. A few swipes over the tip made a glossy sheen, the perfect slip. In no time at all, he was fully engorged and throbbing in his hand. Adam began to pump. He closed his eyes and gave himself over to touch alone. He threw his head back and rocked his hips reflexively. It was so good. Adam pressed his tongue firmly to his upper lip to muffle a frenzy of clipped syllables echoing around the stark room. He twisted his wrist one step closer to oblivion. The tension in his thighs made them flex in spasms. The need to bear down was overwhelming. Adam lifted his legs and pushed his heels into the cushion. He arched his shoulders over the back of the chair until he was almost standing in it. An electrical spark ignited at the base of his spine. His eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth went slack, and he came. The stress poured out of his body and into his hand. In a burst of stars behind his lids, he sunk dizzily into a squat, his backside nestled securely by the woven upholstery. Adam gritted his teeth as an aftershock seized his balls. He clenched his ass tight. “Fuck, enough . . . Jesus.” There was a knock at the door, and Adam froze. 

“Adam? Uh, Mr. Lambert?” Tony tried the doorknob then sighed dramatically. “Here’s your fuckin’ boots.” Adam heard them thump when he dropped them. “And, you’re welcome.” Tony added for his own satisfaction, “stuck up bitch” as he stomped away. Adam’s heart returned to regular beats. He breathed again. His bones were still rubbery as he wriggled out of the chair using mostly his elbows since one hand held his pants and the other a rather impressive mess. Adam cleaned himself with Kleenex and a tub of make-up remover wipes from the counter. He combed and smoothed the tale-tell hump in his hair. His head was clearer now. He decided Louie was avoiding him because the photo shoot was a bust. Obviously, Adam didn't meet Louie's expectations. He knew what to do. Mr. Control Freak aka “le stuck up bitch” would dress and politely excuse himself. He’d wait for Louie to call next week, then with all due respect deny permission to publish. They could use portfolio prints for the article. It might piss people off, but Adam had the final say no matter the repercussions. Inevitably, the decision belonged to Adam, and that’s how he liked it even if it meant taking the heat alone. There was another knock at the door, and Adam opened it carefully in case Tony decided to try again. Instead, it was Louie. He held Adam’s boots as if he were formally presenting him a royal crown.

“I want to apologize and ask you to please not leave . . . not yet.”

Adam let the door open wide. “The pictures are no good, right? You’ve got to scrap the lot.”

“Scrap the lot?”

“Yeah, they’re lousy so delete, delete, delete.” Adam pointed his finger at an imaginary keyboard. “You want to start over, right?”

Louie looked like Adam had struck him. “No . . . no, Adam. I have been terribly unsuccessful to communicate to you. It is my error. Please come back to the studio and have a drink with me. I will show you the photos I have uploaded so far. I think you will like them.”

“I don’t ever like pictures of myself.”

“Well, perhaps you can humor me by simply admiring my skill, then.”

Adam didn’t want to be impolite, and he had no other responsibilities that evening. A little alcohol might soften the blow of disappointment. “I’ll have a drink with you.”

Louie clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Excellent.” 

Back in the studio, Louie took a bottle of whiskey and two short glasses from a cabinet. They both downed a swift shot intent on savoring a refill after. Louie asked Adam questions about his career that revealed he had researched the subject a bit. Adam was flattered. He was genuinely interested in Louie’s business, so he countered with his own questions. They shared something in common. Louise also liked to talk. “Until recently, I was what they call a ‘hold out’ which means I refused to go digital.” Louie made a definitive swipe sideways with his hand. “Bytes, codecs, pixels . . . bleh! I had to learn a new way. I am a very impatient man, and I was overwhelmed at first. But, the digital image . . . it is so fast.” Louie shrugged. “It is the money, I am sorry to say. As a professional, my job, I must compete, you see. I accomplish more, eh . . . volume. It is required to success.”

“I understand very well making compromises in your art in order to be successful in your profession.” They clinked their glasses. 

Louie dramatically clutched his chest. “My art . . . my ART!” He sighed. “For my art, I will always use film . . . always.” I have a personal gallery in my studio at home where my dreams reside. Louie studied Adam’s face. “Come see these . . . your pictures.” He got up and Adam followed him reluctantly to the station of computers. Louie opened tabs. “They are untouched. I have not yet altered or enhanced them. This is another function so much easier for my job.” Adam peered over Louie’s shoulder. The thumbnails were too small for detail. Louie was scanning. “Here, look at this one.” He enlarged it.

Adam blinked. It was one of the shots of him on the couch. “Shit.”

“No shit, right? Very alluring, yes?”

Adam was surprised. “Yeah . . . very.”

“What were you thinking?”

Adam’s filter was down after the drinks. “Well, I was actually trying NOT to think about fucking my boyfriend.”

Louie grinned. “But of course. The camera sees passion. I prefer to photograph celebrities who are real people like you over regular models. They try to be seductive but only the camera shows a vacancy there. It isn’t real. But you . . . you have love and sex! Lots and lots of sex.”

Adam laughed. “You can’t tell that.”

“Oh, but I did tell you, just now. I speak the truth, yes?”

“I’m very . . . fulfilled, very much in love.”

Louie’s features actually turned soft. “Yes, I need no lens to see this.” Then, he was back to studying Adam’s face until Adam felt a little self-conscious. “I want to photograph you just a bit more.” Adam resisted. “Look, Adam.” Louie drew Adam’s attention back to the computer. “There is a sequence here.” He showed Adam the image of him fixing the smudge on his boot, and it was actually Adam’s favorite so far. Something about the graceful bend of his knee, the line of his tie, his lashes, his tongue moistening his thumb. GQ wished they had anything so fine in their rag. Then, the couch shots were totally brazen. They revealed so much more than his chest hair. They were vibrant like the beating heart beneath. Louie could sense that Adam approved. “Now look at this one!” Adam was tossing money onto the table. Louie beamed with delight. “Look at that! Your discovery, the items in your pockets because these are really your pants! That is fantastic! It cannot be imitation and be believed.” Adam peered closer. A tuft of blondish fuzz was definitely visible in the mirror.

“Uh-oh! That . . .” Adam pointed. “I don’t know, maybe a little too authentic.”

Louie put his hand to his mouth. “OH! This is my bad. Don’t worry. I will create a shadow, of course. ‘Bord’ is not pornography.” Louie found that statement hilarious. “I should know. That’s how I started.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, I used to take dirty pictures for a living, but it is a very poor living. And, I failed at it. My work was too artistic, they said.”

“Well, that explains it! That’s why I like these. It’s a medium I’m very familiar with.” They laughed together and had another drink.

“So you do like my pictures after all?”

Adam looked at them again. “Yeah, they sort of tell a story.”

“Yes! There is a natural progression from frame to frame.” Louie clicked on several more but withheld commentary. The images spoke for themselves. Adam was breathtaking and real. These photos were not airbrushed or manipulated. It was really Adam. He was trying to wrap his head around that. “The story is unfinished.”

“What?”

“The story, it must continue.”

Adam chuckled. “I don’t know. It keeps getting more revealing. There isn’t anything left for me to do but get naked.”

Louie nodded. “Precisely.”

Adam stared at him. “Oh, no no. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“In photos, I’ve gone without my shirt before, but . . .” Adam showed his disdain. “I just don’t usually show a lot of skin.”

“It confuses me that you are shy.”

“Well, it’s just practical. I mean, I don’t work out. I’m kind of pale and the freckles are . . .”

“Distinguishing . . . real?”

“I’ve never looked at it that way. There’s real and there’s ideal. People want to see perfection in magazines. They airbrush the hell outta me for good reason.”

Louie referred to the evidence at hand. “I believe you and I have a different definition of perfection.”

“Why are you pushing this so hard?”

“Because you’re actually talking to me about it. You’re thinking about it.”

“I’ve thought about it, but I’ve always just . . . no, I think no.”

“You think, but you are not sure because every time you consider it a little more of you wants to.”

Adam felt his face grow hot as his ears began to tingle. The answer was still no. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Louie confidently sat back and crossed his ankles like a professor. “Of course, I do. Look at you. Look how far you’ve come, so handsome now and healthy. You’ve never been this together in your life, but you’re thirty and there’s a clock. Maybe in five . . . ten years, juice and Botox won’t do it anymore.” It was unsettling how Louie knew so much about him. “Admit it, Adam, this is your physical peak. You’ve never been more confident, more in control. The music has never felt so right. The sex has never been so good. You, right now have reached your ideal. Show it. Show them.” 

Adam stood up defiantly. “None of my friends would ever ask me to do this.”

“Of course they wouldn’t. Of course not.”

Adam searched the room for inspiration. Surely a viable excuse would come to him, one that would not only validate his resistance but shame Louie into rescinding the offer. Nothing. Perhaps if he just started talking, a simple “No” would come out. Adam said the first thing on his mind, but it didn’t sound at all like no. “There are too many people here.” Louie bolted out of his chair and clapped orders for everyone to evacuate. “These lights are too bright.” Louie pulled the spotlights out of the way and replaced them with soft lamps. Adam found the stereo and flipped impatiently through the CD cases for something to help him let go. There, Moby. He was also a photographer. It would do. Adam turned it on then turned around. Louie had produced a robe out of nowhere and was waiting for his next command. They had changed places. Adam had total control once again. He flung the robe across a chair. “I get to keep the shirt until I’m ready.” 

“Take as long as you need.”

“When I say it’s over, it’s over.”

“Understood.”

“I need another drink.” Louie poured one for himself as well. 

He held up his glass. “Trust me.” 

Adam clinked the rim and downed it. With that Adam began to shimmy out of his pants. Louie rolled up his sleeves and dug through a bag for the camera he wanted, his prize possession, the one loaded with film . . . real film. Adam didn’t dance, but he swayed and stepped with the rhythm of the music, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He let his arms float above an imaginary current of sound. He tilted his head exposing the column of his throat. He turned his shoulders and his hips followed in a slow dreamy sleepwalk of sorts. Louie spoke to his camera, “corriger . . . oui, oui . . .” Adam smoothed the table as if he were testing the temperature of a pool. He peered into the surface but the varnish made poor reflection. Adam regarded the mirror and approached. Louie hissed with excitement, “absolument parfait.” Adam stared into the mirror for a moment. He touched his face. He was almost there. Louie stood perfectly still as if he were trying to capture a rare bird that might flutter away any moment. He whispered, “être nu pour moi.” Then as if Adam understood, he let the shirt fall from his shoulders. Louie took the lens from his face and looked just for a moment with his own eyes, “magnifique.” Adam seemed entranced, unaware that Louie was there. He reached out and touched the surface of the glass with his fingertips. The image within touched back. Click. Louie got it. Adam looked away and shivered. He tried to cover himself. Louie put down his camera and scrambled for the robe. He helped Adam into it. 

Adam looked into Louie’s face. “Did you see what you wanted to see?” 

Louie reached up and wiped a tear from under Adam’s eye. “Yes, I saw it. What did you see?” 

“I’m not sure. It was me, though. I was me. Did we finish the story?” 

“No. No, Adam. I think it is only just beginning for you.”

Adam and Louie said little else to each other. Adam dressed and before he left, Louie promised to send him a print copy of the one he would choose for his gallery. He assured Adam he would not sell or distribute the others. Adam thanked him and shook his hand on the bargain. Unfortunately, as Adam drove home, he sobered and his doubts grew. Something special had occurred that Adam couldn’t yet determine, but even mistakes can feel like magic as they’re happening. The more Adam thought, the more worried he became. Louie started out as a professional pornographer, and Louie had pictures of Adam naked. It wasn’t even very interesting as a scandal. The tabloids would cheer triumphantly, and mainstream America wouldn’t hesitate to hate. ‘Adam Lambert? In pornography? Well, duh! I figured him for a pervert right away.’ 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adam could hear the insinuations ricochet between his temples as the showerhead set on jet stream pummeled the back of his neck. Suddenly Sauli was there, but real this time, in the flesh. He adjusted the nozzle until it fell softer, like rain. He soaped a cloth and washed Adam clean. Adam shared. He smeared the suds from his body onto Sauli, playfully dabbing his nose and his chin. “Stop it.” Sauli turned his face into the water and sputtered. Adam kissed his wet lips, then Sauli pushed him under the stream for a rinse. Adam let himself be handled. Sauli took such good care of him those times when he knew Adam needed him to. Sauli dried them with fluffy towels. Adam usually would be making his moves by now. Sauli wondered if he had read him wrong. Maybe he wasn’t in the mood.

“I made dinner.”

“Good, I’m hungry.”

“Do you want to eat first?”

“Did you have something else in mind?”

“I thought maybe you wanted to talk about something.”

“I do, but it can wait.” Adam picked Sauli up in his arms and carried him to the bed. He sat and scooched toward the headboard. Sauli crawled over him until they were both in place, and he sat in Adam’s lap. They kissed. They caressed every plane, every curve with broad flat palms. They looked lovingly into each other’s eyes and held hands. They tried nibbling, nuzzling . . . ears, necks, cheeks. It wasn’t happening. Adam pushed Sauli gently off. They changed positions until Adam was lying fully on top of Sauli’s body. Adam willed himself to get aroused, but Sauli only felt smothered, smashed. Sauli’s breath hitched, and a small sound escaped his lips. Adam stopped everything. 

Sauli wrapped his arms tightly around Adam’s shoulders and whispered into his ear. “What can I do?” 

Adam rolled off and bent his arm over his eyes. “I’m hurting you.”

Sauli propped himself on his elbow. “No you’re not.”

“I’m selfish.”

“No, you’re not. Stop this.” Sauli moved Adam’s arm so he could look at him. “You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately. It’s perfectly . . .”

“No, that’s not it. I did something stupid. I didn’t think about what could happen. I was selfish.”

Sauli became worried and sat up. “I think you’d better tell me.”

There was an edge to Sauli’s voice that snapped Adam out of his sulk. He and Sauli faced each other cross-legged under the folds of the sheet. “It isn’t what you think. There was a boy at the photo shoot. He propositioned me, but I turned him down. That isn’t what I’m upset about, though.”

“Was he cute?”

“He was totally cute, but next to you . . . an ogre. I mean it, a fuckin’ troll.”

Sauli smiled in spite of himself. “All right, that’s enough. So if you didn’t fuck a troll, what did you do that was so horrible?”

“I let the photographer take pictures of me in the nude.”

“Adam, that’s not funny. Will you just tell me what happened?”

“That’s really it. I swear. I couldn’t believe it either, but I did it.”

“You took your clothes off?”

“Yes.”

“You were naked?”

“Totally.”

Sauli took a second, searching Adam’s face for certainty. “Oh my God! 

“Are you mad?”

“From the front or the back?”

“The back!”

“Were you standing or lying down?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!”

“Standing.”

Sauli let out a long tremulous sigh. “All right, then.”

“You mean, all right like you’re okay with it?”

Sauli shrugged. “Yes, I guess so. What’s done is done. It’s very popular right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lots of men are posing naked for magazines.”

“Like who?”

“Michael Fassbender, Adam Levine, David Beckham, Jake Shears . . .”

“Wait a minute! How come you know all these naked men right off the top of your head?”

Sauli blushed. “If you’re going to travel everywhere and leave me all alone for days and days, I’m going to entertain myself.”

“You do this online.” 

“Yes.” 

“In my office.” 

“Yes.” 

“You sit in my desk chair and jerk off to pictures of naked men.” 

“Is that a problem?”

“No, I was just thinking . . . what if my photos end up on the internet?”

“I thought this was for a fashion magazine.”

“It was. I had clothes on for those. The nudes were just for his gallery or something.”

“Then what are you worried about?”

“I don’t really know this guy. He might have lied. They might get leaked.”

“How bad would it be?”

“Well, I’m not a thing like David Beckham. That’s for sure.”

“You’re beautiful, Adam.”

“What I mean is, I’ve got no business being naked for anyone but you. And it could totally hurt my credibility, which could hurt sales, and that’s money out of our pocket . . .”

“Hold it, Adam. You don’t know that will happen. Did you see the pictures?”

“No, he took them on film. He said he’d send me a print when they were developed. I don’t even know how it’ll look.”

“How did you feel?”

Adam thought for a moment before responding. “Free.”

“Then why do you believe you will have to pay?”

Adam contemplated the possibility that Sauli may have misunderstood him but finally decided it didn’t matter. He was right. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too. Now can we please go eat? I’m starving.”

“Okay, but later I’m going to make mad, passionate love to you.”

“Well, we’ll see about that. Otherwise, I can only hope your picture shows up on the internet.” Sauli barely escaped a severe tickling, but he’d given Adam a new perspective with no 'bright side' lecture required.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Weeks later, after Adam and his publicist had proofed Louie’s layout for the May issue of “Bord” and enthusiastically granted permission to publish, an envelope arrived in Adam’s personal mail. The digital spread had included one of the photos Louie had taken of Adam in only the shirt, but it was so flattering, Adam let it slide. The full-length angle was certain to raise an eyebrow or two. The edge barely covered his bottom then those long, long legs went on for miles. It looked better than Adam expected, and he was less anxious about the final shot. Now that he had the envelope in his hands, his doubts returned. He no longer believed Louie would betray his trust, but he feared the actual picture would lack significance. The experience in the studio had been quite profound. Adam would be disappointed if the image was like so many others and failed to move him. He waited all day to break the seal and peak at the contents inside. The first thing he saw was a note, handwritten from Louie himself. 

 

**********Hello, Adam! This print is a B&W 8X10 of you. I matted it for framing if you wish. My original is prominently displayed in my personal gallery. I revealed it recently at a dinner party, and I am happy to say they were speechless. I am relieved you admired my choices for "Bord". However, I wanted you to know that you have inspired me to leave the fashion world and return to my art . . . at least for a time. I hope I have helped you feel the liberty to take more freedom in your artistic expression as well. There is so much inside you . . . the camera, she sees. P.S. I hope you like the caption on the back.**************

Adam carefully pulled out the cardboard folder wrapped in protective plastic. He popped the tape closure with his thumb and slipped the cover off. He read the caption first. “l’œil du spectateur” Louie provided the translation underneath . . . “the eye of the beholder”. He took a deep breath then turned it over and looked. Adam was reminded immediately of the first time he beheld his cover of Rolling Stone. At first he hardly believed it was him then he wondered how on earth to accept it. Adam stared, taking in every millimeter of the paper from corner to corner. There was very little background, just Adam and the mirror. Adam had worried how revealing the image might be, but his hand by fortune alone was at the precise place at his side to block any frontal exposure. His ass was bare, of course, but high and tight . . . a bit airbrushed he noticed and was grateful. He strained to see freckles, and they were there. They gave character and dimension to the breadth of his back. Louis was right, Adam had been oversensitive about them. Finally, Adam peered into his own face. A bit of hair had fallen out of place on his forehead. His brows were arced and inquisitive. His lips were slightly parted in concentration. His jaw set firm and certain, his eyes moist, almost translucent. Somehow the film had captured their clarity without the aid of hue. He seemed suspended there in a trance. Adam himself yearned to witness again what that man in the mirror could see, the ageless and timeless self within. Louie had accomplished with light what Adam hoped he had created in his music . . . a bare, naked window to the soul. 

Adam held the photo to his chest for a moment and thanked the universe. Beauty is indeed in the eye of the beholder. He believed that to love others, one must first love himself. Finally, finally . . . he was there.


End file.
